


The Glory Days are Over

by argent_snow



Category: Almost Human
Genre: AU, Gen, Implied!Valerie Stahl/MX-43, MX-43s get replaced with new generation of police androids, What am I doing, some MXs remain activated to work for the public like the DRNs, technology is always advancing and being upgraded, what is this genre-wise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argent_snow/pseuds/argent_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Number 53 now spends his days fixing traffic lights and cleaning parks, but he remembers a time when he was something more. A shield, an officer, a partner, and a friend. AU. Implied!Valerie Stahl/MX-43</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glory Days are Over

**Author's Note:**

> Why. What am I doing. 
> 
> On a belated note, I do not own Almost Human. This is very loosely connected to my other Valerie/MX-43 fanfic ‘An Ordinary Hero.’ Not in the same universe, but I like to think that 700 (Valerie’s MX partner from the episode Blood Brothers) awkwardly helps a child find his/her toy in all the universes, some way or the other. There are just some things you can’t change ~~(in headcanons).~~ x-) 
> 
> BMR (Black-Market-Robot) and DAEC (Department of Assets and Equipment Control) are canon terms. The former can be found in a news clip reporting on the MX-43s replacing the DRNs, and the latter can be found on the labels on the MX and DRN body bags, and the old web-design for the Meet Your MX website (not the current one).

* * *

**01.** **Déjà vu**

**...**

_“The data I’ve studied suggest that the best proof of one’s existence is if one is remembered after they’re gone. // Makes me think, who is going to remember me?”_

-          Dorian, Episode 2: Skin

* * *

 

The child had been there for five minutes.

Number 53 had seen the boy and the reason for his presence the moment it landed into the pond. The red, plastic ball bobbed a couple yards away, teasingly nudged further from its distraught owner by curious koi fish.  53 had decided not to approach him. He was on a strict timetable, and there were numerous other tasks that required his attention. Two of the MX units that were supposed to be helping him had been delegated to another pressing job, since the respective human workers had called in sick. It was the reason why 53 was the only service-bot standing in the pond, his work boots ankle-deep in algae and brownish muck, while the bloated corpses of technicolor koi fish bobbed around him.

A malfunctioning filter, a water-hose left by some absent-minded human worker, and a subsequent fertilizer runoff had caused the water to plummet into an unsuitable pH level. Fortunately the other sections of the pond had been divided and were not affected, but this section in itself held several dozens of koi fish, and 53 found himself pressed for time.

He held the net in front of him as he walked back on land. Wet plops and thuds sounded out as the fish were unceremoniously dumped into a basket. 53 shook the pole, freeing one of the fish that had been tangled in the net, and headed back out into the pond again. His pale blue eyes strayed over to the boy sitting forlornly on the pier, and the sight made him pause as a fragmented memory flashed through his CPU. His hands around the pole loosened.

A five-year old girl and her doll. A man shaking his hand. The same hand being held by a smiling woman – his partner. Her, again.

It always ended with her.

53 snapped out of the reverie, tightening his grip. He swept his gaze around the pond, hesitated for several seconds, before trudging back onto land. The pole was placed onto the top of the basket, abandoned in favor for the other, unused net on the ground. 53 strode quickly around the pond, the minutes he had allocated to himself for this diversion ticking away.

The boy blinked when a shadow fell over him, and he glanced over his shoulder. His mouth dropped open in an ‘o’ of surprise when he saw that it was the service-bot that had been scooping up fish in the other section of the pond. Before he could say anything, the android came to his side and fell into a crouch, balancing his weight on tips of his shoes. The sudden movement drew the koi fish to the pier, but a majority of them were still circling around the red ball.

53 tilted his head slightly, gazing down at the gaping fish hovering near the pier. He glanced at the child. “Do you have any pellets?”

The boy’s eyes brightened when he realized what the MX was planning. He rifled through his pockets and showed the android his hands. A few whole pellets, and mostly crumbs laid in his palm. “It’s not a lot,” the boy said.

“Not a lot,” 53 agreed, and turned his attention to the pier. There were some pellets that had fallen into the cracks between the wooden planks, dropped by enthusiastic children and visitors. He scooped what he could find into his hand, and then raised it toward the boy. The child dumped his pellets into the palm of the android’s hand, and watched with wide eyes as 53 closed his fingers over it. The MX drew his arm back and tossed the pellets a little ways to the left.

Loud splashes sounded as the koi fish followed the movement and darted over to where the pellets landed. The congregation attracted the other fish, and soon, the red ball was abandoned. The flurry had pushed the ball out a little further, but it slowly floated back.  It rocked gently on the waves, prevented from moving away by the gentle undulations rippling from the epicenter of a nearby water nozzle.

The boy quivered with excitement as the android picked up the pole and extended its length. 53 worked quickly, swiping the ball into the net and lifting it out before it could pop back out into the water. The child was practically bouncing up and down by the time he drew the pole back. 53 reached into the net and retrieved the ball, critically examining its state. Bits of algae were stuck to its side.

He wiped the ball against his shirt before offering it to the child. “You should wash your hands and the ball,” 53 said gravely. “It is very dirty.”

The warning seemed to have made its impact on the boy, because he gingerly accepted the toy. The boy smiled widely at him, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. “I will. Thanks, Mister Robot!”

A younger, and high-pitched voice echoed in the crevices of his mind.

_‘Look! I got Serena back! Thanks, Mister Robo-cop!’_

For a split second, he felt very out-of-place in his gray uniform and mud-caked boots. The sensation passed as quickly as it came, and the android returned to his original state of mind. ( _Assistance completed, one minute and thirteen seconds left, throw away the fish, clean the pond, fix the filter – )_

53 merely nodded in reply, and watched the boy run back to the main area of the park. Pole by his side, the MX walked back to the other section of the pond, pausing only to bend down and pick up litter some humans had thrown on the sidewalk.

Back to work.

* * *

 

Synthetics did not dream.

Their brains – or rather, their CPUs, were not wired the same way as a human’s. But that was the only word that Number 53 could find to describe the state he entered every night he retired into the underground facilities for a recharge. The people that owned him, the other MXs, some DRNs, and several older android models had mandated that they were to charge in sleep-mode, since they booted up faster that way, and could respond to foreign stimuli if any unauthorized persons ever entered the restricted room. That meant that though most critical systems were offline, several processes were still left on, and hence, the unintentional effect of ‘dreaming’ for Number 53.

He never shared this phenomenon with the other androids or the technicians when he dropped by for a monthly check-up. All workforce androids were equipped with the auto-maintain protocol to prevent the technicians from wasting their time on minor problems. 53 found nothing wrong with the corrupted memory files, as it did not negatively impact his programming or work efficiency. They were usually the result of a memory wipe, bits and pieces of data that were always left behind, unable to be removed completely. The reason for the possible memory wipe did not concern him, although his suspicions steadily grew as the nights lengthened and the ‘dreams’ increased.  He did not delve into the matter, however. 

It was safer not to stand out. To blend in with the rest of the androids. 53 recalled one particular moment, back in the earlier days of his activation, when a DRN – Number 17 – was assisting him and a human in repairing the traffic lights. There had been two police androids below them, a ‘female’ and a ‘male,’ temporarily directing the traffic. 17 had gazed at them with a strange expression on his face, before innocently commenting that ‘times changed fast.’ 53 had found nothing wrong with the statement at the time, as it had been very vague. But it meant something to the human, because the man stiffened and stared at the DRN with wide eyes.

The next day, an MX had taken Number 17’s place and unit-designation. 53 never saw the DRN again. It was only some time later did he understand the older android’s comment, and it only reinforced his decision to keep silent.

But oh, how he _wanted_ to ask someone about them. About these remnants of data and experiences that were not his, the clothes and visored-helmet he wore that were so similar to that of the regalia the police androids donned. These incriminating pieces of evidence, these gaps and shards and fragments that formed a jagged picture, these redacted names and places, these corrupted memory files whose implications were world-shattering. 

Number 53 was only a service-bot, and his daily life consisted of cleaning the parks, fixing public infrastructure, and occasionally mucking through the sewers. But he was an android, and he was capable of thinking. Perhaps he could not infer or connect vague ideas like a DRN, but when the clues and hints piled obviously upon each other, there was no escaping the fact.

These experiences were not _his_ , but they had been at some point. They did not come from a refurbished part of some other android. 53 intimately knew this during days with rainy or cold weather and the joints in his right shoulder would creak and throb, or when particular patches of his skin felt stretched. He had been repaired extensively, but never recycled or fitted with another part of an MX. The clothes he wore, the uniformed people he worked with, the similarly dressed MXs around him, the gun he held, and the woman who was always present, always either at the center or fringes of his vision –

He had been something more. Of this, Number 53 was sure.

* * *

 

Her cheek was marred with strips of code and numbers. The flashing red and blue lights casted strange tints on her skin, but the digital scars remained untouched.

It wasn’t uncommon for him to see such errors breaking the scenery or persons in his corrupted files, but seeing it on _her_ unsettled his processes for an inexplicable reason. He wanted to reach out and fix it, but this was a memory, and he could not break from its structure.

To his relief, it was her that closed the distance between them instead, with hurried steps. 53 didn’t understand the reason for her action, as all the memories flitted through his mind without any context. It wasn’t until she was less than a foot from him that the MX comprehended the situation. His face was reflected in her eyes – a face that looked like it had been scraped and dragged against the ground. The left side of his face was damaged, the metal carapace of his skull visible. The jagged remains of his synthetic skin hung limply, and half of his mouth was gone, with only the grin of his false teeth peeking through.

She made a movement, her hand reaching out as if to touch him. His eyes flickered to the right – landing on a technician that was prodding several bullet holes on his side – before going back to her. The woman hesitated, and then closed her hand into a fist, letting it drop by her side. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her brow drawn downwards – similar to the expressions 53 had once seen on humans who had tripped and scraped their knees.

The woman inhaled deeply, the strange look clearing from her face. “What’s your status?” she quietly asked.

It was a statement 53 had heard many times before, but never in such a soft, meaningful tone. There was an undercurrent beneath her voice, almost as if she was asking an entirely different question.

The technician beside him answered before his past self could. “He’s good to go. Mostly aesthetic damage, although the BMR did do a number on his skull. Six bullets, none of them penetrated his chest plate. Don’t have the tools here to glue his face back on. You’ll have to get an appointment with the Chief.”

His partner smiled faintly, but did not look away from 53. “Thanks. That’ll be all.”

The technician recorded some notes down on his tablet and took his leave. When the man was well out of earshot, 53’s mouth moved, and his voice came out as a near-silent thrum – the words meant only for the woman across from him.

“It is like he said. I have sustained no major damage.”

Her face blurred briefly and the audio fell silent at the same time. It was a break that 53 had quickly learned always occurred whenever someone referenced his name, or certain other people – like her. The censorship carried over to the facial recognition program running on his HUD as well.

“ – your _face_ is _torn off._ ” She raised her hand and pressed it firmly against his ruined cheek. He couldn’t feel its warmth, not with his skin gone, but he could feel the pressure. It had a strange effect on his processes, ceasing its restlessness.

It felt right. Familiar.

“I know it’s mostly aesthetic,” the woman was now saying. “But that BMR…” She shuddered, recalling the event that 53 could not see.

“You shot it before it could offline me,” he pointed out calmly.

The expression did not fade from her face. “I barely came in time.”    

His past self did not answer for a long moment, silently regarding her. Not for the first time, 53 wished he knew what was going on in his other self’s mind. But he couldn’t. These experiences were just data, the connections lost between what had happened before he was a service-bot and an officer. He was nothing more than a spectator to his own memories.

“All I felt was friction,” he said abruptly. “Impact from the bullets and hits. Perhaps as a human, I would be dead by now.” The understatement elicited a half-hearted chuckle from her. “But I am not. I was made for this.” The MX reached up and laid his gloved hand over hers, leaned into her touch for a split second, before pulling her hand off gently. “You shouldn’t worry.”

As he said the last statement, his eyes darted to the human officers and MXs milling around the scene behind them, and then back to the woman. Even without the benefit of his past self’s thoughts, 53 immediately understood the gesture.

_Not here. Not in front of them._

The woman bit her lower lip, and then straightened, her expression becoming certain. “I’ll worry as much as I want to. I’m not the only officer out there fussing over my partner.” She smiled weakly. “Don’t you remember? Ortega freaked out when his MX got scratched by those two crazy cats.”

“I remember that clearly.” A pause. “As well as the bandages. Officer Ortega was…excessive.”

She laughed. “Not _excessive._ Just worried. It’s – it’s what partners do. We look out for each other.”

“I know. You’ve told me that thirteen times before.”

“Then make it fifteen now.” Her hand tightened around his, and 53 realized belatedly, that he had not let go of her hand earlier. “We’ve got each other’s backs. So try not to get offlined, okay? Be a shield all you want, I know you can’t help that…but you’re not expendable to me.”

_You’re not expendable to me._

_Your absence would be felt._

_You mean something more._

53 never found out if he ever replied. The memory was already beginning to disintegrate, as static bars and the patches of code grew and worsened, consuming the video log. He gripped uselessly at the fragmenting data.

 _(What is your name?),_ he wanted to ask the fading woman. _(What is your name, who am I, why is it that I mean so much to you when I am disposable, easily replaceable –)_

The grip around his hand disappeared.

_( **Where are you?** )_

* * *

 

“Victim’s identified as Jeff Rogers. Got knifed five times,” Officer Cole said, handing the preliminary report to Detective McIntyre. “Died two minutes before the paramedics arrived.”

“Where are the witnesses?” the police android beside the detective asked. The numbers ‘160’ were emblazoned on her bullet-proof vest. “Dispatch said one of the workers fixing a solar sub-station called in the incident.”

“One of ‘em’s over there. Zack Whitson,” Cole jabbed a thumb toward a man who was sitting on a bench, a blanket around his shoulders. “In shock, dunno if you’ll be getting anything from him now. The MX might be more useful to you.”

McIntyre raised her eyebrows, glancing up from the report. “MX?” she repeated.

The man snorted. “Right? I thought all of them got sent to the recycling dump, but it looks like they’ve kept some around for hard labor.”

“Of course they did,” McIntyre dismissed. “They didn’t scrap all the DRNs either.” She looked at her partner. “160, you want to handle the MX? I’ll go take Mr. Whitson.”

The android nodded. “Of course, Detective.”

160 started for the crime scene, giving a cursory glance over the body on the ground. There were bloody handprints on the man’s shirt, indicative of a person trying to help him. Recalling Zack’s near catatonic state, it didn’t take long for 160 to figure out who had attempted to save the victim. The conclusion intrigued her. What had been the MX’s motivation for even trying to save a man doomed to die?

She continued past the body, heading over to where a CSI tech was scanning the MX. The older android stood still as the drone circled around him for a couple seconds. The red light flickered off, and the drone flatly announced, “Thank you for your cooperation. And remember – hugs, not drugs. Stay on this side of the Wall and respect authority.”

When the CSI tech left, 160 stepped forward. “I am Unit 160. What is your name?”

The MX’s pale blue eyes flickered over her body, lingering on the holster strapped to her right thigh, and her bullet-proof vest. His mouth pressed into a thin line, as if the sight was troubling him. “Number 53,” he said curtly. His baritone voice was a different vocoder from the one installed in the male counterparts of her series. Inflectionless. More mechanical.

“Were you the one who called in the crime?”

53’s attention strayed over to the corpse. “Yes. Mr. Whitson was not calm enough to do so.”

“Did you try to confront the assailant, or get a glimpse of his face?”

“For forty-five seconds. I lack the appropriate protocols and subroutines to subdue him. His face was masked the entire time.”

A dead end, for now. Perhaps looking through the MX’s video log would reveal a connection he missed. He was no longer an officer after all, and most of his abilities had been stripped – such as hand-to-hand combat skills, and vocal and facial recognition programming. She held out her gloved hand, palm up. “May I access your short-term memory?”

The MX twitched, finally ripping his gaze away from the body. 160 was startled when his eyes suddenly flashed, a glimmer of alertness in the depths of those formerly lifeless irises. It disappeared as quick as it came, and his eyes dimmed to an opaque pool once more.

“I can send you the file over the network,” the older android said smoothly, side-stepping her question. “Is that all you need?”

She silently looked at him, lips pursed into a thin line. Her gesture had explicitly indicated that she wanted to do a memory transfer via the data port on his temple, but the MX had quietly shot down that option. As a police android, with the weight of the law behind her, 160 could very well force the MX to comply. Network memory transfers from other android models were not trusted because that meant they could _choose_ which particular one to send, and which to leave out. But when 160 looked at the android across from her, the only thing she felt for him was pity.

He had been a police android, once upon a time. And although he was now a service-bot, stripped of his ServeProtect protocols, memories, and unit-designation, he was still an MX. And MXs had no reason to lie. They _could not_ lie. Such a motivation was lost on a being steeped in a world of black and white. She knew this, because her model series was situated between the two extreme spectrums. A balance of emotion and rationality, a successor to the DRNs’ unpredictable, Synthetic Soul and the MXs’ cold, first-order predicate logic.

160 let her hand drop by her side. Orange lights swirled from her data port and traced across her cheek. “That’s all I need. Permission granted for memory transfer.”

The MX gazed at her, expression unchanging. And then his own processor lights flickered.

The androids’ lights dimmed when the file transfer was complete. 160 looked at the MX, struck with the urge to say something to him. But what was there to say? He was now only a shadow from the era of the MXs, a relic of the past. And his logical mind would most likely not appreciate the silly questions that were on the tip of her tongue.

_What was it like back then? Who was your partner? Did he or she ever fight for you, when the time came for the MXs to be retired?_

_What would you think of your situation now, if you remembered?_

160 quashed those questions and buried them away, knowing that they would never be answered. She nodded to him, and said the only thing she could. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

He blinked, tilting his head slightly. “It is not a problem.”

Even though all was said and done, she lingered for a moment, feeling as if there was still an unfinished matter. Her eyes fell onto his bloodied hands. Acting on an impulse, 160 reached into her pocket and withdrew the packet of tissues that she kept on her person for Detective McIntyre. She took a good portion out and pressed it into the palm of his hand.

“For you,” she said simply, and turned around to go back to her partner. A quiet ‘thank you’ made her pause briefly, before she continued on.

Perhaps the significance of her action was lost on the MX, and he would probably never understand that she had decided not to take whatever was left of his dignity – if a generic, logic-based android even had one, in the first place. But his barely audible admission, that simple recognition of her gesture, a platitude humans took for granted but was telling when it came from an android like him, told 160 that this MX was different.

She couldn't do anything for him, but it comforted her that she had, in some way, acknowledged that inkling of awareness in him. Though there was something sad about watching her predecessor be degraded to a mere service-bot, 160 knew this was the better fate for him.

Life as a police android wasn’t much kinder.

* * *

  _Addendum_

…

He froze when he saw them, trash stick hovering inches above some cans that were discarded on the sidewalk. Some yards away, under the shadow of the wooden bridge, was a woman and a young boy. Their backs were faced toward him, as they fed the koi fish that splashed nearby. His eyes zoned in onto the woman’s hair, the sight stirring recognition in the recesses of his mind.

Before he realized it, 53 was heading over to them, his feet moving over on its own accord. His processes were restless – a hum that grew louder and louder as he neared them. A strange sensation rose in his chest, and he absentmindedly wondered if a part was malfunctioning.

The two humans were unaware of his presence, focused as they were on the technicolor fish. 53 reached out, but stopped short of touching her shoulder. He let his hand drop by his side instead, and when he spoke, his calm voice quivered slightly.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

The woman turned around.

It was not her.

The burgeoning sensation in his chest was crushed as he realized that perhaps, it would never be her.

“Yes?” the woman asked, sounding bewildered when the MX did not continue. “Is there something you need?”

He blinked. And then dipped his head in an apologetic gesture. “I thought you were someone else.”

The look on the woman’s face softened slightly. “Well, I’m sorry I’m not that person. Maybe you’ll find her later.”

 _The statistical chances of that, taking into account the city’s large population, are less than 20.42% –_ his CPU immediately rattled off, which 53 ignored. Instead, he gave the woman a stiff nod. “Maybe,” he echoed.

She gave him an encouraging smile, a wide and toothy gesture that he could not return, as his solid carbon fiber and silicon skull limited the range of his expressions. The most he could do was let the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, and from the way her grin widened, he knew she understood, and it somewhat settled his restless processes. They were still riled from the moment, still lingering on the ghost of the woman he knew. _( **Knew** in the **past-tense** , he was no longer an officer, he was no longer her partner –)_

He bid them a good day and returned to the side-walk, watching the mother and son from his peripheral vision as he continued to pick up the litter with the trash stick. His eyes were focused on the back of the woman’s head, at her wavy brown hair and the way the lighter tints glistened in the sun. It reminded him of _her,_ and the sight called to the remnants of his memories from long ago. The reaction was so strong that 53 was struck with the thought that his fragmented memories might be knitted together, holes and gaps filled in, redacted parts made clear, through the sheer power of its familiarity. 

But it didn’t. Because that was illogical, and there were no miracles for beings like him.

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Urgh, what have I written? *facepalms* Should I continue this? x_x 
> 
> The malfunctioning muse strikes again. I have no excuse for this. It didn't even come out the way I wanted it to, lol. (And yes, I realize the title could totally be ironic considering the MXs in the show die most ingloriously as ~~bullet-catchers~~ ). Originally written in present-tense, but I fail at that so I had to change to past-tense. Supposed to be longer, but I gave up on myself - the scenes are moved for a potential Chapter 2 (hence why initial memory indicates a steady relationship/friendship; memories are out of order). x_x Thanks for reading, and if you decide to, any comments/kudos/criticisms/etc are always appreciated (especially since I think I utterly failed this)! *throws platonic hearts* :-) 
> 
> I'm going to refrain from uploading any new fanfics until I at least update this one if I decide to continue it, or either 'these shadows haunt you' or 'Mall Cop.' I'm such a bad person. Sorry guys – any promised updates are going to be set back by another week or two. Or maybe more. Real Life...you know the drill. T_T 
> 
> This fanfic can also be found on Tumblr and Fanfiction.net under the username argent-snow.


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